We regret, too often. And then we grow older, and realize we like what we have become, and the regrets turn into something else — something completely different. They become one spectacular crystal clear ball. Age becomes a gift. The past gradually releases its hold. I can own up to my anger and understand the reason. I can look at the people who raised me and realize that the bonds between us was a myth; it was imposed by a delusion of what a parent is and what a daughter is. I now know, because of age, that there were choices that this person could have made to leave the ritual of violence. I now know that you don’t drag a child to different schools every year and expect her to adapt and do well and be happy. I now know that these frequent, abrupt changes in childhood makes it impossible to mend.
Joy Ganzon Rigor 